


Imagine You're Flying

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Parentlock, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Imagine you’re flying. Bright lights and muted noises below, you hover just above and watch fondly. Now, imagine you’re falling. Hard ground approaches quickly, your heart fastens with every second. Imagine you hit the ground.





	Imagine You're Flying

Imagine you’re flying. Bright lights and muted noises below, you hover just above and watch fondly. Now, imagine you’re falling. Hard ground approaches quickly, your heart fastens with every second. Imagine you hit the ground. Except, it’s not painful. You’re not hurt. In fact, you feel sort of...good? A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. A sound like sharp scissors. You’re flying again. No, this is different. Floating. Gliding. You open your eyes, you hadn’t noticed yourself squeezing them shut. You turn around. A familiar face beams back at you. There’s an expression you don’t recognise on his face. Pride, perhaps? You run to him. No, not running. Not walking. Sliding? He catches you. His hands are warm, gloved. His nose is pink. Your nose is pink, too. He lifts you and straightens your scarf.

Another lesson at the rink. Sherlock is confident that Greyson can get a single axel. “Today is the day,” he’d said. Grey is less confident. A single axel?? Was he insane? Nonetheless, here he was, picking himself up off the ice yet again. He had mastered his salchow, toe loop, loop jump, flip jump, and lunge jump the weeks prior, but every time he’d even attempted the axel he’d ended up skin on ice. What his Papa would say if he knew how well acquainted he’d become with the ice…

“C’mon Watson, no time to waste,” Sherlock calls to him as he approaches, holding out his hand to help Greyson up. 

“I’m never gonna get it,” Grey pushes off his knee, taking the hand up. He was already formulating the lies he would tell John as to why he was all bruised up; I fell at recess, I slipped on the ice on the way to school, we were playing hide and seek. Vague stories that wouldn’t take much context or explanation. John was very easily lied to, Sherlock had taught him that with his skating lessons.

“Up, up. Come on,” Sherlock rights him. “Your body has to work as _one_ , like a well calibrated machine. Focus.” Grey only nods.

He takes a few laps, building his speed and finding his balance. He knew his balance wasn’t the problem, though. He was feline on the ice, movements calculated and graceful. Sherlock had made sure of that much. The problem was in his mind; He needed to learn to unite his body and his mind, to clear everything else and _feel._

Sherlock watches him closely, and Greyson knows it. He knows Sherlock knows he’s stalling. He knows Sherlock is waiting. Still, Sherlock says nothing. Sherlock knows Greyson is frustrated, he knows Grey is trying his hardest. He knows Greyson will have another go when he feels good about it. And Sherlock was willing to wait as long as it would take.

Minutes pass, and confidence returns to Grey. He puts his weight on his left foot, lifting his right behind him. His arms are extended to either side. In an instant he’s flying. He holds his breath, focusing hard.

Cold ice against his side. Sherlock crouches on his blades. “What happened, Watson?” Grey doesn’t answer. “You nearly had it.”

When Grey lifts his head, tears streak his face. They feel hot, hotter than he’s ever felt them. He speaks slowly.

“I can’t do it.”

Sherlock wipes his tears and rights him wordlessly. “Hush now, Watson, there’s no reason to cry.” He’s quiet for another long moment, cuddling Greyson close. “You _can_ do it. I know you can.” He ruffles ginger curls. “Jump out. Don’t pre-turn it. Get yourself off the ice. The rest will find itself.”

Reluctantly, Greyson stands. His feet hurt, but he silences them. He doesn’t listen to anything but his own heartbeat in his ears, directing a symphony with the blades on the ice. All the noise is muted, all of his thoughts are discarded. Once more, he pushes off the ice. Silence. One turn. One half turn. Flying. The sound like scissors. Piercing blue eyes warmer than the sun on their holiday. Pride.

“That’s my boy, Watson!”

Imagine you’re flying.


End file.
